


Reanimating A Distressed Traveler

by Tabi_essentially



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-typical suicidal ideology, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor low-key has a crush, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied poly!Markus, Markus is love, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), WAFF, android philosophy, literally warm and fuzzy feelings, we don't deserve dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabi_essentially/pseuds/Tabi_essentially
Summary: Summary: Deviancy is just the glitch that gives an android free will and allows them to break from their programming. It doesn't automatically shower you with feelings. For that kind of magic, sometimes you need a dog.Or:Connor almost freezes his plastic nuts off on his way to Hank's house and has an existential crisis. Good thing St Bernards exist. This was supposed to be fluff, I swear, but it went deviant and became angst (with a happy ending)Based onthis videowhich is totally Sumo and Connor, isn't it?Andthis is the painting mentioned.





	Reanimating A Distressed Traveler

It was too cold for an android to be walking around outside with so little in the way of insulation to protect his biocomponents from damage, but Connor wasn't the only one on the streets as the sun set. There were others; some with heavier clothes, wrapped tight around their middles and covering their heads. And others with next to nothing. Those androids would fare badly tonight, when the temperature dropped another ten degrees. A few might die.

The revolution had changed the world, but many androids were no better off. Universal acceptance was a long way off if history was anything to go by, and a lot of them had been dumped onto the streets to fend for themselves. Cruelty wasn't going to just disappear from every conscious creature.

Connor walked the same streets, and experienced the same cold. Warnings kept popping up in his vision, only now, he had the option to dismiss them.

Leaving Hank because he had to “tie up some loose ends,” and then going to Markus, and then telling Markus the exact same thing, probably made it obvious to everyone that Connor didn't know what to do with himself. 

Hank had told him, “All right, son, I'll be here if you need me.” (“Son”: Hank had called him that a few times. Connor was 87% sure it was a colloquialism. Men over the age of fifty sometimes used that term for men under the age of thirty, particularly police officers, in order to integrate newer members and establish camaraderie, and Connor had been built to resemble an adult human male under the age of thirty. It made sense. Still, it must have been difficult for him to use the word. And perhaps he had never used it toward, say, Gavin Reed.)

So Connor had found Markus and the remnants of Jericho, but very soon he had the urge to leave them as well, and he didn't know why.

Before leaving Markus, Connor had used the “tie up some loose ends” phrase, and Markus had said, “I told you once before that you belong with your people, Connor. But you have free will, and I want you to know that 'your people' are whomever you choose them to be. Many of us were forced to do abhorrent things before we broke through our programming. You're always welcome at our side.”

Then Markus had reached his hand out to him, not quite the same gesture that Connor had always used to probe the memory of other androids, and had used to awaken the Cyberlife androids. Instead, Markus had held his hand up, palm out, as he had with North. It seemed somehow a more intimate way of interfacing, but Connor's social programming worked just as well with other androids, so he copied the gesture. When Connor had done it to the Cyberlife androids, he'd merely transferred to them the option of breaking their programming. When Markus did it to him, curling his hand around Connor's own—perhaps because Connor had already deviated from his program—he had... felt? something? Difficult to say: feelings not based on results of his own actions were new. Feelings other than a low-level, static hum of perhaps fondness, and lately, regret, were shockingly new. He could not necessarily call them feelings; could not match the sensations to words, but it was almost as if he had developed receptors in some of his biocomponents. 

Maybe, he had wondered, Markus would kiss him, too? He would not be averse to trying it out, if so.

But then Markus had said to him, “You know, Connor, I had a father.”

“Oh,” Connor had said, a little stupidly, as if his social functions were lagging.

But then again, it had been cold then, and it was even colder now, so some amount of lag made sense.

The sun set, a fierce wind whipped up some icy snow, and the temperature dropped. More warnings popped up. Why hadn't he stayed with Hank, or with Markus? It was illogical to be out in the cold, where he could die, like any other android who didn't have an option. 

He had been the one to remove those other androids' options, in the first few months of his existence. His _existence_ , not his “life,” no – machines didn't have lives. He hadn't been deviant; he hadn't been alive back then. But the ones he had killed? They had. 

Hank would probably tell him that those deviants had caused harm, and he wouldn't be wrong. That he had saved human lives. But Hank had also told him on one occasion that the revenge-based justice system in this country was fucked. What did that even mean? What actions could he have taken that would have been just? He thought of Daniel, dangling a child off of a roof. He couldn't have imagined any other course of action before breaking through his programming, and he couldn't imagine one now. Maybe that was part of his problem. 

Was it guilt that had made him come out here to die like this? Was he suicidal, like Hank? He didn't want to die, but maybe the will to continue was just another bit of code. Dying hadn't hurt, exactly, but he had opinions about it, and they were all negative. It hadn't been pleasant, rebooting in a new body after his one instance of destruction. He had lost some of his memories and even a few functions. 

Connor walked on, aware that he was going toward Hank's home, but with no real intent, just out of a habit that had been programmed into him for having done it often enough.

So much of the human experience was based on the will to live, and to procreate. Even social functions were based in survival. But humans had hormones, and receptors, to make them feel those things – _feel_ them, in a way Connor didn't think he could. The great scientist from the last century, Carl Sagan, had called it “the elegant architecture of consciousness,” and he was certain he had that. But to behave based on emotions, ones he couldn't even be certain were even his own? It didn't make sense. A human like him would have been called a sociopath. Maybe other androids were like that, too: behaviors based on logical underpinnings rooted in survival, and just faking the rest.

No; it couldn't be. Markus wasn't like that. Markus felt love, and anger, just like a human. And, Connor believed, so had the Tracis. Maybe he could, too. But how? Without hormones or neurotransmitters: _How?_ It didn't make sense. Nothing made any sense, and it was so _cold_ now. 

Hank's car was gone by the time Connor got there, his house was locked, and Connor didn't wish to break another window, which would also defeat the purpose of entering a warm environment so he could get his functions back on track. Sumo barked from beyond the door, and jumped up onto the windowsill to look out at him. He gave a full-body wag when he saw Connor, like he was happy. A dog had the chemicals to experience happiness.

Connor had no actual pain, temperature, or discomfort receptors in his eyes, and yet his network signaled him that they felt like something. 

It was stunning. The cold, maybe – maybe it had gotten bad enough that it had triggered a new symptom of deviancy. Like human brains, his own network could adapt, could change, and do new things. That's what some deviants had said on the news: that they had gained spontaneous physical sensation. They had spoken of not really being able to describe it, like a blind person gaining sight and having to explain “blue” to a person who still couldn't see. He wasn't sure he believed that, but there was no denying that he felt something happening in his eyes.

It...hurt? If he had to guess, if he had to put a word to the sensation, it hurt. _Stung_ , was maybe more appropriate.

After Connor had broken into Hank's home the night he'd found him unconscious on the floor, Hank had reprimanded him for breaking the window. “It was fucking unlocked, Connor,” he had said. “I had to pay for that shit.”

So this time he just tried the window, and it slid open. He slithered himself in and crashed to the floor, systems really lagging now, but he had to get back up to close the window, so he might as well stay on his feet and get to the sofa, where it was probably a little warmer.

Sumo followed him as he sat on the sofa, and then watched him as he lay down. He couldn't fall asleep and dream, but he could recreate, and even create new scenarios in his mind. In humans this was called “fantasizing” but Connor didn't know what it might be termed when he did it. He wanted to create a pleasing scenario, but did not have a lot of pleasant experiences to draw from. Just a few.

After the uprising, he had gone to meet Hank, and Hank had pulled him into an embrace. He had registered the pressure, and even the fondness, and that had felt... nice, or at least it had activated positive feedback cascades in his social program. Theoretically, it might be enjoyable to be held like that again. He didn't know a lot of people, or really a lot of androids, unless you counted Markus and a handful of his people, and even then, “know” was probably too strong a term for people you had once tried to kill. 

He could know them, someday, maybe. He created a hypothetical scenario in which Markus might embrace him in that same way. A positive feedback cascade followed.

Sumo “ _wuffed_ ” at him softly and stretched his neck out, as if he were asking, “what do we do now?” 

He gained more positive feedback when he reached out a hand to pat Sumo on the head. His fur was soft, a little oily, and a little gritty. Likely, it was hard to bathe him in the winter. Or maybe at all. 

Sumo pushed his wet nose into Connor's palm, and then, encouraged, pushed his nose into Connor's hair and made that same soft “ _whuff_ ” sound. He lifted his large front paw and placed it onto Connor's shoulder, curling his claws and digging his nails in, to indicate he wanted more attention. This probably hurt humans, and yet they usually allowed it.

He tried what he had observed Hank saying: “You're a good boy, Sumo. Good dog.”

With another huffing sound, Sumo put one paw on the sofa, and then the other. He climbed slowly, like he expected to get told to get down. When Connor said nothing, Sumo pulled his back feet and haunches up, and stood over Connor, wagging his tail, presumably pleased that he was allowed to be there. 

“You're standing on my legs,” Connor said, and Sumo said, “ _Harf_ ,” and turned around in a full circle before deciding it was time to make himself comfortable. He was too big to lie alongside Connor, so instead he settled himself right on top of him. He was as heavy as a human, and his fur was warm, speeding up the process of raising the core temperature of Connor's thirium and biocomponents. 

This was part of the history and lore of the St. Bernard breed: search and rescue. There was a painting about it, called _Alpine Mastiffs Reanimating A Distressed Traveler._

“I'm your distressed traveler, I suppose,” Connor said. “But I'm all right, honestly.”

Sumo snuffled into his hair, and then laid his head under Connor's chin. His muzzle was white. Sumo was seven years old; in a few months he would be eight years old. St. Bernards had a lifespan somewhat shorter than smaller breeds. 

Sumo was old.

How would Hank react when Sumo died? That was concerning.

But of more immediate concern was that sensation again behind his eyes, bright and sharp. This was definitely a feeling, and definitely not a good one. He didn't want Sumo to die.

Why did humans choose to live with such short-lived companions? 

For that matter, by comparison to androids, a human was also potentially a short-lived companion. And yet, Connor didn't want to not be around Hank for fear of eventually losing him. He didn't want to not be around Sumo for the same reason. It must simply be worth it, then, to take what time and comfort you could get. Rather this moment, here on a tattered old sofa, with a tattered old dog snuffling against his shoulder, than _not_ this moment, not here, and somewhere alone. 

“Good dog,” Connor said, in a voice he didn't recognize. “Good boy.”

“ _Hrph_ ,” Sumo said.

And there went another one, a physical sensation, a feeling, as if he were registering a temperature fluctuation, but on the inside. 

Warm. Happy?

A key rattled in the lock, but Sumo couldn't be bothered to move. He just said “ _Buf_ ” toward the door as it opened, and Hank came in.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Connor,” Hank said. His hand was behind his back, reaching for his pistol. “I nearly shot your stupid ass. Give me a heart attack, while you're at it.”

“Sorry, Hank.”

“Sumo, come on, get off him, let the boy up.”

“It's okay,” Connor said. “He's just doing his job as a St. Bernard.” 

Hank gave him one of his assessing looks, and flicked on the light. “You okay, Connor?”

“Yes, Hank, I'm fine. The outdoor temperature dropped as I was making my way to your house. Sumo must have registered that, and his breed-specific behavior kicked in.”

Hank frowned, and came over to place a hand against Connor's forehead. “You could die out there on a night like tonight,” he said. He sighed. “But you seem warm enough now.”

“Yes.”

Hank went into the kitchen. Connor heard him open the refrigerator door and take out some items. He clattered around, probably making a cold sandwich. Connor patted Sumo's head and thought it would be nice to stay here, with this feeling - just _be_ with it for a while.

“He's not trained for any of that rescue stuff,” Hank called from the kitchen. “Sumo's lazy. He doesn't even like to shit outside when it's cold. He just likes you.”

This brought an interesting perspective to light: dogs regularly did things outside of their training. You could train them all you wanted to, humans had spent thousands of years breeding specific behaviors into them, but domesticated dogs were still feelings-led. Basically, they did whatever they felt like doing.

Dogs were _deviants_. 

His own laugh shocked him; it didn't sound like the pre-programmed social laughter he had always made. He hadn't even tried to make this sound; it had come out on its own.

Hank popped his head out of the kitchen and looked at him, one eyebrow up, before retreating to continue preparing his meal. After a moment, he came back in with a sandwich on a paper plate, and a bottle of – water? Not beer, but _water?_ He sat down on the recliner opposite the sofa. Sumo abandoned Connor to the call of free food, and sat instead at Hank's feet, petitioning with one clumsy paw for a slice of meat, which Hank gave to him.

“Are you having feelings, Connor?” Hank asked. 

“I don't know.”

“Well I think you are.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“For christ's sake, I come in here and find you hugging my dog and crying, and now you're laughing this weird, hysterical laugh...”

“Crying?” Connor sat up. “I'm not...” He ran a finger under his eye; it came away wet. He put it to his tongue.

“Oh Jesus,” Hank grumbled.

It was saline and water.

“Why do androids even have tear ducts?” Hank asked.

“The same primary reasons humans do,” Connor said. “To lubricate and protect the eyes, but also to integrate socially and simulate crying if required or requested.”

Hank nodded towards him, his mouth full. “That's no simulation. You're having some kind of emotional freak-out.”

“I...guess I am having a freak-out. Hank, why is it so much easier to feel negative emotions?”

Hank shrugged. “Because it's a shit world. If you want the good feelings, you have to work for them.”

“Do you?”

“Nah,” Hank said.

His reply triggered another negative feeling. “I understand.”

“I'll never be happy, not in the way that other people can be. It's just not going to get better. You're probably better at feeling happiness than I ever will be. I'm sorry, Connor. I know that you care about me or whatever, and that's not what you want to hear.”

“Don't be sorry. And I only want to hear the truth.”

“Well, for what it's worth, you have fucked up my plans.”

Oh, and there it was: _hurt_. “My apologies,” Connor said. “I can go.” He started to rise.

“Sit down, don't be an idiot,” Hank said. “Were you seriously going to go back out there and freeze your plastic nuts off? I didn't mean tonight, I mean in general. You fucked up my long-term plans, you know? I always figured, after Sumo was gone, it would be time for me to check out. I was going to hang around just to take care of him, so he wouldn't end up on the streets or in some shelter. But now it looks like I have to stick around just to look after you. Not like an android detective who could kick my ass needs protection, I'm not saying that, just...”

“Yes,” Connor said, too fast. “I do need you. Of course I do. Who else is going to talk to me about this sort of thing? Going deviant, how to integrate with people now that I have these...”

“Yeah, feelings. If you're going to be out there having feelings, and making decisions based on them... Especially if you're going to get into _relationships_ or whatever, you have to be...” He waved his hand around and looked down at his sandwich. “You know, _safe._ ”

“Markus has already given me the one virus that matters,” Connor said. Innuendos like that were not part of his program, and he laughed at his own words, at his own wit, which had come out of nowhere.

“And on that awkward note,” Hank said, scraping up the last of the mayonnaise from his plate with a piece of bread. He stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “Hey Connor, I'm about to take a shower and go to bed. Will your inside parts freeze if you take Sumo out to do his business?”

“No, Hank,” Connor said, “I've reached my safest core temperature, and it would take another thirty minutes for it to become critical again. I doubt it will take him thirty minutes to 'do his business', and I'll be happy to spend more time with him.”

“Thanks,” Hank said. “And if you're staying here tonight then you can, you know... feel free to let him on the couch with you if you want to go into rest mode or whatever. He doesn't smell too good, so you'll probably want to change your clothes in the morning.”

“Oh. I don't have any.”

Hank waved his hand. “Well I might have grabbed a few things that I thought would fit you, some shirts, pants, and shit like that. And a coat, to keep your blue blood and internal shit warm.”

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor said, rising to get the leash on a hook by the door. 

“Coat's in the closet, by the way,” Hank said.

Connor hooked Sumo's leash to his collar and opened the closet. Inside was a black winter coat, with an embroidered cloth insignia on the arm that read: “DETROIT POLICE.”

“But I'm not...” Connor began.

“Yeah you are,” Hank said. “Look, just put it on and don't worry about it. It'll all work out.”

Connor tried to say “thank you” again, but something had happened to his voice again, like there was a glitch somewhere, and that piercing burn came behind his eyes again, which he could now put a name to: tears. He made a useless expenditure of movement with his hand.

Hank gave him a knowing look and said “You're welcome,” before disappearing into his room.

Sumo started to follow Hank, but then came back to walk in a circle around Connor's feet. He looked at Connor, then at the door, then back to Connor. He sat and whined, thudding his tail against the floor.

Connor put the coat on, opened the door, and Sumo jumped up. He still had a lot of—as Hank said—spring in his step. It was freezing out there, and androids and humans alike were out on the streets tonight, like every night. Something had to be done about that, _would_ be done about that. A real loose end that needed tying up, and it was probably a good idea to go back to Markus with an actual purpose in mind this time.

But first, Sumo needed his walk.

“Good boy,” Connor said as they stepped outside together. “Let's go.”

**Author's Note:**

> So... I am the biggest h/c whore in the multiverse and there is a lot in canon that gives Connor this exquisite vulnerability that is a MUST for me if I'm going all-in on a character. And yet and yet and yet. I sort of want to write a fic where deviant!Connor is, yes, a four month old adorkable puppy, but he’s also a trained killer and skilled negotiator like… Yo they built and programmed him to exploit human and android patterns and weaknesses, he still knows exactly how to do that, he’s still stronger and faster than any bitch, and now he’s got _opinions_ , fuck, he is so dangerous.
> 
> I might?? be writing a thing like that next?? if my edits from my agent don't come in before then. I'm new to this particular rabbit hole god help me, and I'm obsessed, but I've also got a kid, and a novel in the works. (Please feel 110% free to like or follow my [my author page here.](https://www.facebook.com/JulesKDevito/) :D I'm very unobtrusive and I don't spam with lots of updates.)
> 
> Anyway, so if I get a sec, then I swear I'm gonna get on that badass!Connor fic next.
> 
> And of course, thank you so much for being here and reading!


End file.
